Invading Prisoners
by LondonBelow
Summary: Patroclus wants more respect. Achilles needs more time. As if this weren't enough, Odysseus is beginning to cause trouble. When Briseis is thrown into the mix, all hell breaks loose.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Technically the Trojan War is public domain, but I am using the interpretations shown in the Wolfgang Peterson movie so I guess those belong to him or someone affiliated with the film.

Author's Note (AKA 'I'm not crazy, well, not too crazy…'): In Greek mythology, Patroklus is credited as Achilles' senior. However, Garrett Hedlund is about 20 years younger than Brad Pitt. For the sake of this story, Achilles will be about 5 years older than Patroclus. As for Odysseus, in The Odyssey he struck me as clever but not one to study. Again, this is a story about the movie (and Sean Bean is just awesome).

The sun edges closer to the horizon. Flakes of light sparkle off the Aegean. The shadows are long and the sun hot. Cool water laps around Patroclus' calves. It might be uncomfortable, had he not spent the better part of his life in the sun. Patroclus sighs. He has been standing in the water for nearly an hour now. If not for the brace of freshly caught fish resting across his back, he might be annoyed with the heat, and himself a Greek!

His attention is nearly diverted but then—ah! A pattern beneath the water! Patroclus spots the familiar shape of the spiked ridge atop the dusky perch and lets his spear fly. Spear, as though it were! Patroclus can only wish. He fishes with a sharpened stick.

He imagines the conversation. Achilles will make some vaguely offensive comment about Patroclus' war being against the fish, or openly condescending remark about the importance of keeping the warriors well fed. In truth Patroclus knows he needs no true spear.

Patroclus takes the end of his fishing spear firmly in hand and levers the huge fish from the water. Gobletfuls of sea water cascade in a brilliant arc of reflected sunshine and for the briefest of moments he does not resent his assignment.

Patroclus carries the fish aloft like a flag.

A little over an hour later the men begin to return, the real men, the fight men. As usual Patroclus watches them for that gold flash of Achilles' armor. Late, Achilles is late—near the last—what if he isn't coming home?

Patroclus shakes himself. That is impossible. Achilles can not die. It is the one, only thing he cannot do.

"Achilles!" Patroclus yelps. He can't help himself. Achilles is so far from the head of the line he nearly feared his life. Nearly. Patroclus dares not lose faith, but sometimes, in those fleeting moments between the seconds…

He flies. Wheels of hot sand rise from beneath his heels as Patroclus sends himself in bounds across the beach until, there, he hits Achilles square in the breastplate and wraps his arms around his neck. "Achilles, thank the gods!"

Achilles pats Patroclus on the back, then pushes him away and cuffs him. Patroclus shies from the rebuff. He touches the place on his head where Achilles smacked him. It smarts and melts. "You _never_, Patroclus, you never!" Achilles snaps. He takes hold of Patroclus' arm and leads him back to their tent, ranting, "You never leave the beaches! You're too young to understand this, Cousin, but you stay here because you will die the moment you step foot on the battlefield, you will be shot through with a dozen arrows!"

Before their tent, Achilles hurls Patroclus to ground. Sand stings his arms and sides, everywhere, but Patroclus hurries to his feet. "Achilles, your supper--!"

"I don't want it."

And the tent flap falls shut.

Patroclus sleeps there, too, but he dares not approach. Not yet.

To be continued!


	2. Chapter 2

Patroclus eats, but he has no taste for it. He chews, swallows, and decides he has no interest. He stands. The sea is jeweled tonight, dazzling. Every star glistens in the water. The moon seems not to hang, not to laze, not to run but to laugh its way across the sky.

How glorious it would be to swim in the sea, how easy. It is dark enough for Patroclus to kick off the linen wrapped around his waist and dive into the ocean. Swimming is the only thing he has ever done better than Achilles. Patroclus feels water within himself, but more, of himself. He becomes it.

But tonight is not for swimming. Patroclus remains dressed. Cool ripples of waves kiss his ankles. He walks along the shore.

_"What's happening, Father?" _

_Patroclus is seven years old, confused. He doesn't understand enough even to form a question. It is night, and Patroclus wants to sleep. _

_"Hush, boy. Hold tight," Menoetius replies gruffly. He is Patroclus' father, and Patroclus, ever an obedient child, wraps his arms around Menoetius' waist. The closeness presses Patroclus' shirt closer against his chest, and he feels the sticky wetness of blood. _

_Not a moment too soon! _

_Menoetius presses his calves against the horse's side, and the horse responds with a swift canter. Patroclus will never see home again. _

_It is more than a day before they reach Phthia. They ride that whole day. Menoetius stops when the horse foams and trades her for another. Menoetius never seems to tire. Patroclus does, but he fears to loosen his grip for even a second. He would be thrown away, his head dashed open on the rocks, or worse mangled and left alive a cripple. _

_"Come on, boy," Menoetius says. He hands the reins to a groom and strides forward. _

_Patroclus tags at his heels. His eyes widen as he stares around. What are these walls? What are these buildings? The stars are the same here but the same in different places. "Father, where are we?" he asks. _

_"Phthia. Hush." _

_An answer! Patroclus glows with the implication of worth. He follows his father into a tall building, into a vaulted room where a man sits on a throne. Patroclus knows what to do, but in his exhaustion, he appears overzealous. He means to bow. He falls heavily to his knees, shoulders slumping, head lolling. _

_Patroclus hears Menoetius groan, then a loud laugh breaks across the hall. It ripples through the room, uncomfortable, nervous, awkward laughter of those who are not amused. "Your son, Menoetius?" asks a merry voice. _

_Menoetius' reply is laced with chagrin. "That it is, Peleus." _

_The merry voice, Peleus' voice, commands, "Achilles!" It is a loud command, ringing not through the hall but the building. _

_A moment passes—a moment, then footsteps, then the door is opened and shut. "Yes, Father?" _

_"This is your cousin. Look after him." _

"Patroclus."

He shakes himself from reverie. In the darkness the man beside him is an outline, but his voice is familiar. "Yes?" Odysseus may be a king, the only king Achilles respects, but Achilles has told Patroclus to stay away from him.

"Could you use some company?" Odysseus asks. "You should not be alone."

_You_. It smarts. Of course he, Patroclus, should not be alone. Useless, isn't he? But instead he says, "If you wish."

They walk the beach twice together before another word is spoken. "Polymele and my wife have been good friends for some time," Odysseus says. He laughs. "I think at times there is no one Penelope does not know. Women… I will never understand women. Polymele is a wife of your father, is she not?"

"She is my mother," Patroclus replies. He does not understand what Odysseus is driving at, and he certainly does not like it. Odysseus knows things he should not know.

"Yes—your mother and Peleus's daughter by Antigone," he recites. She is the elder sister of Achilles, by another mother. "And yet…" Odysseus hesitates in the manner meaning he knows precisely what to say next, "and yet Polymele spoke often with Penelope of trouble conceiving."

Suddenly the water is too cold for Patroclus' feet, but he cannot step aside without pressing against Odysseus. To pass in front of him would be an insult, and Patroclus cannot bring himself to pass behind, so he stays here in the water.

"Menoetius has three wives, does he not?"

"What are you driving at?" Patroclus asks, shocking himself with his brashness.

Odysseus shrugs. "I only wonder, Patroclus. Achilles isn't one for show, yet he calls you 'Cousin' often enough."

Patroclus bites his lip. May all the gods damn this man! "I am his cousin."

"The son of his half-sister's husband, indeed," Odysseus allows, "but Polymele, she never conceived a child. You are not Achilles' cousin." It is almost a question, and Patroclus's silence more than answer enough. Odysseus claps him on the shoulder. "I only like knowing, Patroclus," he says.

He leaves Patroclus feeling ill.

_to be continued!_

Reviews will be appreciated


	3. Chapter 3

Briseis grunts as she tugs angrily, but her hands are bound with leather in masterful knots. Her childhood taught her a thing or two about knots. She spent her life among Priam's children, and that horde left no room for shown fear.

She tried at first to belong among the girls. She never did. Cassandra shuddered as though repulsed whenever her gaze fell on Briseis. She had no interest in the mindless chatter of Laudice, Medesicaste and Creusa who longed for marriage and babies; Briseis wanted to ride and see the world. Demnosia and Demosthea wanted to cook and play but only with one another. Iliona, Nereis, Phegea and Philomela gossiped and sewed.

Briseis burned or pricked her fingers. She fidgeted. She daydreamed. Eventually the older girls gave up trying to effeminize her and the younger girls decided she wasn't any fun to play with.

Once, when she was small, Briseis sat on the floor with a toy horse, making him trot back and forth and murmuring, "Neeeigh, neeeigh!"

Helenus and Cassandra walked past. They were always together, and at that time practically identical. They wore short, curly ponytails and Cassandra dressed like a boy. Helenus paused as they passed Briseis. Even then his powers of foresight were known. "You will have happiness," he told Briseis in a benevolent tone.

"But you will pay for it dearly," Cassandra intoned, and the twins walked on.

Eventually Briseis ceased trying to earn the girls' affection and turned to the boys. Deiphobus decided it would be okay for her to play; Paris ceded, but only if Briseis played a captive who they could rescue.

So Briseis played along, happy to play at all. Paris snubbed her, but she knew it was a sign of affection. At least until one day she was skipping down the corridor and heard Hector chastising Paris: "Briseis is our cousin. Be kind to her."

"Why must we, Hector? We don't play with the other girls!"

"Perhaps you are a little too _old_ for playing if you can't share, Paris," Hector retorted. Briseis heard footsteps—Paris storming off—but Hector pulled him back. "Hey—you be nice to Briseis and you'll have my dessert for a month. Isus's the next month and Pammon's the month after that."

Priam's three eldest sons had always been the most decent to Briseis. The others took her at whim and will. It was only the elders who treated her well because they saw it as right, and Briseis in return worshipped them. Still, this time she wasn't sure. She didn't think Hector should force his brothers into false kindness. Was she truly worth nothing but a few months' dessert?

Briseis found Hector later. He was sitting in the gardens with Andromache. She watched, hidden, as he slipped his hand over Andromache's, leaned close and whispered something. They watched the sunset, then Andromache had to leave as she and Hector were not yet married. It was when Hector headed alone toward the palace that Briseis confronted him.

"You know I like you, right?" she asked.

Hector rubbed her hair. "Of course, Brisi."

"Why'd you tell Paris I'm only worth three months' dessert?"

Hector sighed and hugged her. "I understand how you would be offended by that, and I didn't think you would hear or I never would have said it. It's no insult on you. The insult is to my brother."

"To Paris?" Briseis asked.

"Mhm."

"But… but you love Paris!"

"Of course. I love all my siblings," Hector replied. He would make a good king one day, Briseis thought.

"But you love Paris _especially_," Briseis insisted. "You spend all your time with him, when you're not with Andromache."

Hector laughed softly. "You're too clever by half. All right, you mustn't repeat this. Paris is a child. I treat him as such when I must. You are worth more than three lifetimes' dessert, but Paris needs a little nudge to realize it."

Paris accepted Hector's wager. Within a week he loved Briseis. (Of course, he insisted on having the extra desserts.) So she grew up learning to wrestle, run and take a punch. Better, she learned to untie knots.

Unfortunately the knots that tie her to the post in Achilles' tent are tied by masters. Even Briseis' nimble fingers cannot loosen them. She hears voices outside and her heart pounds. One of those voices will be the man who destroys her. One of them…

She almost hopes he'll come soon, whoever he is. At least when he does the waiting will end.

_to be continued!_


	4. Chapter 4

Author's Note: I'm not a fan of Achilles/Briseis, myself, but am including as much of it as I see canonically necessary. The purpose of this story is to examine a piece of mythical canon excluded from this canon.

After Eudoras relays the summons, Achilles unties Briseis' hands. He tosses the leather tie against the wall, no longer needing it. This is the way of things, as Patroclus knows all too well. When Achilles is done with something he simply tosses it aside like a broken top.

"Take a walk on the beach," he suggests. "If you want to live, come back here. I'll take care of you. If you prefer, return to Troy and burn beside your countrymen." The ultimatum is clear, as is Achilles' indifference. He will be pleased if she returns, but he will not be saddened if she does not.

Briseis rises warily. She rubs at her wrists. The veins in her hand cry as circulation floods into them again. She stumbles from the tent and blinks in the bright sunlight. The sand gives under her bare feet and grows suddenly warm, but all it takes is one kiss of seasalt damp air on her face to rejuvenate Briseis. She flies to the water like a sprite, like a child.

Patroclus sees her leave and runs for the tent. It's barely a sprint of ten feet and he's inside.

_"You'll never catch me," Achilles boasts. At twelve he is Patroclus' senior by four years and none too shy on abusing status. He's bigger than Patroclus and better at everything. He has better aim with a bow and arrow, more skill with a sword, does his sums faster and with better accuracy. Since Patroclus arrived, Achilles has come to enjoy his presence. Patroclus is a fun toy for Achilles, a loving, obedient puppy. Patroclus worships Achilles and charms the cooks into slipping him the honey cakes Achilles loves so much. _

_In return, Achilles protects the younger boy. Their first night, Patroclus shared Achilles' bed. He wet himself and Achilles banished him forever more to sleep elsewhere. But a few nights later, the boy woke Achilles. There were tears on his pale face and he whimpered vaguely incoherently that he wanted to sleep with Achilles, please, just tonight, please… _

_"Don't. Piss. My. Bed." And with that Achilles dropped the blankets over Patroclus. Only later did he realize Patroclus had brought a wooden sword with him. _

_Now Achilles is enjoying yet another blatant show of superiority as he runs along the beach. He doesn't count on one thing: Patroclus keeps step. Patroclus' feet hit the ground with the exact momentum of Achilles'. _

_And when Achilles tires and slows, Patroclus does not once break pace. _

"Achilles!"

Achilles smiles and draws Patroclus into an embrace. Patroclus melts. The world has spun itself aright now. He inhales the scent of Achilles' sunshine. "I am sorry I was sore with you earlier, darling," Achilles coos, stroking Patroclus' hair.

"It's all right," Patroclus murmurs. He looks up. "Who was she?" he asks.

Achilles gives him a pat on the shoulder and holds him back. It is to Patroclus banishment from the only thing in life he trusts. "She was no one. A slave. A Trojan woman." He places a palm on either of Patroclus' cheeks and tilts his head gently, staring into his eyes. "You're bothered."

"It's nothing."

Achilles does not release Patroclus. "Tell me," he commands gently. He moves his left hand, stroking Patroclus' face. "What is it? Did someone say something to you?" Achilles asks. He has heard talk among the men, as little time as he spends with them. They think Patroclus useless because he does not fight. They have said disgusting things.

Patroclus knows what Achilles hears, and lies accordingly. "Of course not."

He also lies badly. Achilles' face hardens. "Who was it?" he asks.

Patroclus longs to look away. Odysseus is the only man here not of the Myrmidons who Achilles awards the least degree of respect. Achilles likes Odysseus, and Patroclus cannot come between then. He fears in the most selfish pit of his heart that Achilles will choose Odysseus. 

"It was…" Patroclus lays his hand over Achilles', pressing it against his cheek.

"Shh." Achilles pulls him close and rubs his back. "Tell me," he implores.

Patroclus closes his eyes. Achilles is so warm, so strong. Patroclus closes his eyes and forms one tiny, whispered lie.

"Agamemnon."

_to be continued!_


	5. Chapter 5

Apology: Sorry about the cut-and-paste error!

Patroclus sits on the beach. He holds a knife tightly in his right hand, and in his left holds a fish aloft. The sand shifts beneath him as Patroclus lunges his arm forward. The knife penetrates the soft skin of the fish and quick as the sun shimmers across a wave is withdrawn. Patroclus' arm is swift. He watches juice and blood drip down into the earthen bowl secured between his crossed legs.

When the drizzle slow to an occasional drip, Patroclus watches a single drop descend the steep staircase of scales. It leaves a trail of darkness, then lands too close to the side of the bowl. Its cast-off ripples splash like the sea on the shore.

Once again he attacks. The blade rips through fish flesh. It is drawn away before the fish's organs drop into the shallow, waiting pool of blood. He slides the fish into strips of meat and places them, too, in the bowl of blood and guts.

Patroclus lifts another bowl. Its clay is coarsely uneven and cool, but the bowl is heavy. He tilts it over the mangled fish. Water dribbles down. When liquid covers the soft physical mass, Patroclus sets the bowl down. He sets the bowl of fish by their fire. The fire is extinguished, and no one will trip over it there. Patroclus needs the carcass for tomorrow's fishing. Nothing calls the eels out like a free lunch.

Achilles storms back to the tent. He is alone. He is furious from his encounter with Agamemnon.

Patroclus climbs to his feet. His heels dig pits into the sand. The slap of the tent flap closing echoes in Patroclus' ears as he pulls it open and hurries inside. The darkness wraps around him. It must be ten degrees colder inside.

He stumbles. "Ouch…" Patroclus feels blindly around, reaching, until his hands land on the lantern. He finds the steel and flint and strikes sparks until one catches. In the light he can see Achilles' back, the smoothness of skin. Patroclus runs his hand across the skin. "Achilles?" he asks softly.

"Stop it," Achilles murmurs. He pulls back the blanket. The nights are almost as warm as the days. They cover themselves against the morning fog. They cover themselves for privacy. They cover themselves for intimacy.

Patroclus lies down beside Achilles.

Achilles turns onto his side. He caresses Patroclus' cheek, then kisses him deeply. He rubs Patroclus' neck.

"I hate when you fight," Patroclus whispers. "I can protect you. Let me fight beside you."

Achilles draws closer to Patroclus. His hand travels southward. "You do not fight," he murmurs. He caresses Patroclus' hip with his thumb. "You are too pure and perfect. What do I have to fight for if I'm not coming back to you, huh?"

Patroclus grins. He arches into Achilles' hand. "We'd still be together after," he replies.

"And if I lose you?" Achilles asks. He smacks Patroclus' bottom. "Don't be so selfish."

"Achilles," Patroclus chides playfully. He covers his bottom to keep Achilles from spanking him again, but Achilles is in his playfully mood. Nothing can stop him. He climbs onto Patroclus, straddling him, and plants kisses all over Patroclus' face. "Achilles!" Patroclus protests, laughing. He attempts feebly to push Achilles' away.

Achilles pins Patroclus' arms down. "How much do you love me?" he asks.

Patroclus smiles. When he was nine, Achilles 'knighted' him with a wooden sword. _How much do you love me?_ he asked. "More than there are stars," Patroclus replies.

"How long will you love me?" Achilles asked, as he had those years ago.

"Until the other side of the world."

Achilles smiles down at Patroclus. "Good boy," he says. "I think you deserve a reward."

Odysseus approaches the tent knowing Achilles has been wounded sorely. He approaches, but when he hears the groaning coming from the tent he turns away, grinning and blushing at once. He takes a step and nearly bumps into a soldier of Achilles' Myrmidons.

"I'm very sorry, my lord," the soldier replies.

Odysseus smiles. "Not to worry," he says. "Is it urgent? Can I have a word?" he asks.

The soldier hesitates. "I—I suppose…"

Odysseus wraps an arm around the soldier's shoulders and leads him away, talking him in twelve directions at once.

_to be continued!_


	6. Chapter 6

Patroclus becomes aware slowly of noises—the sounds of the waves splashing on the shore, distant chatter of birds, and quiet voices. He shifts and the voices lower, causing Patroclus to strain. He is not meant to hear and thus desperate to know what is being said.

"…if that is their wish," Achilles is saying, "but I will not fight for him, and any man who does will be dismissed from the Myrmidons." He speaks through the tent door, blocking as best he can, but a small stream of light breaks into the tent nonetheless. Patroclus rolls away from it.

Achilles' tone leaves no room for argument, but Eudorus doesn't care. He has spent the most time with Achilles of any Myrmidon and does not fear him. "My lord, there is more here than Agamemnon! The Greeks rely on the Myrmidons—"

Achilles interrupts, "But not the Myrmidons on the Greeks. It's time Agamemnon learned that. Phthia does not answer to him, the Myrmidons do not answer to him, and I am far from answering to him."

The Myrmidons are not fighting! Patroclus' eyes open widely as he realizes this. How could Achilles bear to make such a choice? Eudorus is correct; thousands of Greeks need the Myrmidons. And Patroclus thought Achilles would fight at least for his friends—admittedly these are limited to Eudorus (sort of) and Odysseus. Patroclus is none too fond of either, and none too concerned for them. Achilles not fighting is the best thing he can imagine happening. Achilles is safe, and soon they will sail home together.

"Achilles!" Patroclus cries. He begins to scramble to his feet.

Both men turn to him. "Cousin," Achilles warns softly. Patroclus freezes, and just in time. It would not do for Eudorus to see Patroclus climb naked from Achilles' bed. He remembers when he first saw a woman leaving Achilles' tent, flushed and chuckling to herself.

_"What did you do, Achilles?" Patroclus asked. Achilles remained beneath the blankets, barely stirring. Patroclus dropped to his knees beside Achilles and rested a hand on his shoulder. "Achilles, what… what did you… with the woman…" _

_Achilles rolled over and blearily opened an eye. "Patroclus," he observed. He wrapped his fingers around Patroclus' hand. "I did to her what I do to you." _

_Patroclus closed his eyes and focused on breathing. How could such a simple act be so painful? "Achilles… Achilles… why would you do this to me? I thought we… I thought you loved me. I love you," Patroclus offered weakly. _

_Achilles sat up. He caressed Patroclus' cheek and pulled him close. Patroclus crumpled against Achilles. "I did it for you, darling." He stroked Patroclus' hair, soothing him like a charmer might a snake. "It is what is expected of me. Father expects me to take a wife. He would not accept you; for now I will be in the eyes of others a loveless, promiscuous bastard." He tilted Patroclus' chin upwards and kissed his lips. "Only you know otherwise. Keep my secret." _

Patroclus sits, the blankets pooled in his lap. He bows his head in respect. "Good morrow, Eudorus."

Eudorus returns the obeisance, admittedly with somewhat more shallow a nod. "Patroclus. Your cousin elects not to fight this day."

At this attempt to manipulate Patroclus' desperation to fight, Achilles slams his arm across the door. "You will not reach me through him," he growls, his voice low. "Be gone now, Eudorus. Patroclus and I must talk." And without awaiting Eudorus' reply, Achilles lets the tent's flap of a door thump shut. His choice is made.

_to be continued!_


End file.
